Gwyneth's personal blog

Friday 31st July, sunny and clear, about 28 degrees. Lovely weather for cricket, a bit malicious of the weather gods to lay it on for Brighton, given that they are apparently planning to drown Pride tomorrow.

Marcel walking in Paris, a summer evening in wartime, the sky still a sea of turquoise:

"But if one looked for long at the sky, this lazy, too beautiful sky which did not condescend to change its timetable and above the city where the lamps had been lit, indolently prolonged its lingering day in these blueish tones, one was siezed with giddiness: it was no longer a flat sea but a vertically stepped series of blue glaciers. And the tower of the Trocadero, which seemed so near the turquoise steps, must, one realised be infinitely remote from them. . ."

Immediately, I long to be somewhere where I can see the immensity of those "glaciers": but you probably need to be in a city, and you must be on a hilltop. Here in West Sussex on a summer afternoon, there's no trick of the light or angle to break the illusion. The height of blue sky, with all its ranked clouds, seems to match exactly the space of meadow and woodland below the horizon. The Arun harbours yellow waterlilies, the Wey and Arun canal, a project of restoration that's fallen on hard times, hides between drifts of purple loosestrife. We'd been drenched in The Mens, hiding under a tree in the shadowy beech and holly woodland, we were hoping to find lunch of some kind in Wisborough Green. In the church of St Peter ad Vincula, extraordinary little treasure, we were waylaid by an agreeable church warden or similar, who may have turned up to make sure we weren't nicking anything but stayed to tell us all about it, the tour guide experience. Saxon foundation, Norman structure, fourteenth century wall-paintings, fifteenth century side aisles, the tower had to be built inside the body of the church because otherwise it might have fallen off the knoll, and into the river which used to flow just below us in those days. The Huguenots came and made glass hereabouts, bits get dug up in gardens, there's a tiny window pieced together from scraps of blueish, very thin, mediaeval glass. . . Thank God, says I, as we finally left, all of that lot wasn't in French. Almost drenched again, we made it to the Three Crowns, a very nice location on the 272, on one of the prettiest and most touristique roads in the South of England. Startlingly good food, if you are passing on your way to historic Winchester.

Butterflies. The oaks along the field margins. A long halt for sky-gazing yoga by the old canal, listening to a water wheel. And back in the Mens, one lone Parasol mushroom, which I stubbornly carried home, because Parasols are so tasty. It should be a great summer for funghi, the rain has to be good for something, but we saw nothing else edible, except for a couple of elderly horse mushrooms I decided to leave to the invertebrates.

The photo is by Simon Carey, and if you link through his name you can find out how to buy it.

Thanks to Mark Irons, for the nice letter you sent to Aoxomoxoa.

Cool grey evening, no sign of the threatened rain.

Midnight Lamp online, third episode of Bold As Love, has now been added to the right page of the bold as love site, and here it is:http://www.boldaslove.co.uk/


Tell you the truth, I never thought of this project as circumventing the Google Settlement (they've digitised "Life", for some reason, but I don't think any other of my titles). It's just something I've always wanted to do. In time, all my novels will be provided in this form, or whatever replaces this form*, and they're yours to keep, I won't have any power to wipe your copy from your reader, or nefariously meddle with the content as a form of attack-art. (Though it's an idea). *Yes, even Escape Plans.

Ann Halam, hm. That's a lot of books. . .

The only thing that slows me down is the remastering, but it'd be a shame not to. Esp in the case of episode 4 of Bold As Love, the next in line for the treatment.

Tuesday July 28th, cool sun and cloud, strong breeze

And to think, six months ago I was convinced that by the summer, at the very latest, I would be safely back in those halcyon days of the lost past, when I could spend my time being a writer; even indulge in the hours of critical reading, writing, listening, thinking, and speculation that trickle down, eventually into an essay or an article for my own archives. Fat chance. Today it's a break of sorts, bullying my tax docs into submission : first the neat and docketed parts, then at last, reluctantly, the woeful heap of crumpled old bus tickets that represent out of pocket miscellaneous expenses, (which we have to be ready to produce, you know) and here is laid bare the staggering amount of time I have spent on trains since last December, not to mention the miserable things I have had to eat on said trains (seem to be a few beers here as well, but I couldn't call that a consolation). The endless Americanos. That smoked ham sandwich and "Florida Orange Juice" from M&S food manchester piccadilly, probably the nadir of dining experiences. Ah, the almond croissants at Pumpkin, East Croydon (a rare non-Manchester related jaunt). They were nice.

Oooh, a ten pound note!

I shouldn't complain, it's no worse than having a job, I'm sure (as opposed to being a feckless artist). And last week, a genuine break, reading Helen Merrick's "Secret Feminist Cabal" story. Really fresh, interesting take on the whole phenomenon of women/feminist sf/feminism in the sf community: light on literary criticism, academic jargon, long on piecing together what happened, when it happened, and who did what to whom. Segues from chapters of what's frankly vintage tasty gossip (what else is history?), into analytical discussion, and settles on the place of science in feminist sf as a final topic. An aspect of the endeavour that usually goes right by feminist theorists who get interested in fem-sf, & it's a shame. Science isn't only a metaphor, or a decor, or a crude means of smuggling utopia into adventure fantasy. There are women (me for one) who write sf not to make a feminist point, that's necessity, not preference. But because they are interested in science, just the way a bloke might be.

No use, time's a wasting, tomorrow I'm back on the train, now for the triage operation on these scraps

The photo is a view from Greenwich Park. The poppy field and my office are on their holidays, wish I was.

Tuesday, 21st July, cool and balmy air, luminous overcast

After breakfast and putting together the ful mesdames which will simmer now all day, I take my coffee out to the shabby peace of our patio and pretend I'm on holiday, Kastraki beach 2005 wd do, or Thoard or Bonnieux last summer. Seven drunks in a van, coming back from Lords howling incoherently down the phone, evervescent with the cunning way Freddie conspired to rob England, for once of a triumphant snatching of defeat from the jaws of victory, reminded me yesterday of Kastraki, and the Australian Internet bar in Naxos town... The air is soft, I have a good book (it's Accelerando), maybe I just went swimming in the Aegean, maybe not, but never mind, I have a painted lady for company, a female she's sitting on the worn wood (just like in the picture), fearless and calm, even when I get close to her. Accelerando is a this is where I came in experience (like deja vu only not so exciting as it's voluntary). Exactly like reading Neuromancer for the first time, or Bruce Sterling when I first met him. The humane geek, hip to the futuristic edge of things, and, sadly for me, terrified of women. Did I ever mention, all the times I've praised the cyberpunks, that little problem? Me, not a deracinated cyberbabe, not a Mom or a vagina dentata. Therefore me not possible! Ah, well, me and the butterfly, same problem maybe. But don't you see, the world already is packed with intelligent information? Looking back at us, from every angle? Don't you see, we don't need Second Nature, reinventing the wheel, we only need to connect?

I wish I could stay outdoors, getting my brain tweaked into pleasurable attention, but I have to go to work. Indexing, indexing, indexing, what made me remember this as an enjoyable task? Maybe the volume was slimmer, and maybe I was working in Old Word, a decade ago, instead of struggling with a pdf ripped back into Word 2007, which I don't like. Or else it's because this so-called book of essays is more like a memoir, and that gets boring after several close examinations. Full of things I'm finished with.

Monday July 13th, cool and cloudy, one lone swift on the wing.

Just got the news, via SFRA, that Charles Brown is dead. I liked him very much, he was a friend of mine from the first time we met. I'm glad he went easy (I mean, as far as the reports I've seen), that's a gift from the gods. He'll be missed.

Friday 10th July, clear blue sky, cooler. No swifts.

Finally watched Tony Palmer's Shostakovich biopic last night. I don't know why, considering the director, but I'd been expecting a sombre bio/historical drama. It's more of a Ken Russell puppet show, and if it hadn't been made for Channel 4, I'd have wondered what audience Palmer was thinking of, for a fairly demanding topic. I thought it was pretty good, though. The combination of stark black&white & surreal carnival effects works very well with the man's music and with the horror around him. Interesting range of reviews here and elsewhere! I must concur: if you're a big fan of Joe Stalin you should beware of this movie. It will only upset you.

I love red kites, always look forward to seeing them over the M40. I didn't know they did interior design, how nice.

Monday 6th July, cool grey and showery.

Madness and misery in my bedside reading. I've just reached the home straight of Proust again, Time Regained, and Marcel's jaded view on life is getting me down. Every friend betrays him, everyone turns out to be venal, treacherous, secretly homosexual or all three. The "secretly homosexual" issue has to be a big part of the problem, but Marcel's thesis that: when homosexuality is outlawed, only nasty or feeble-minded perverts persist, all the normal people who happen to be gay/lesbian just make do with straight sex is getting me down too. . . And then it's back to Gravity's Rainbow, paranoia goes mad in wartime Europe; more grim loony tunes. And if I decide to skip GR, I revert to The Tale Of Genji, despairing anorexic women with limbs like wet spaghetti, creeping around in gloom, getting institutionally raped. I've thought of replacing Gravity's Rainbow with Memoires De L'Outre Tombe, but Francois Rene de Chateaubriand can be a bit of a miserable nutcase himself. . . I need a new direction, but I can't bear to let go. I started reading those three majestic tomes in rotation about twenty years ago.

Trapped by my own traditions, I've probably reached the age I've heard about, where people no longer find the cruel edge of reality intensely satisfying, instead they just do not want to hear the bad news.

To London last week, last minute draftee (Iain Banks had to drop out) to a panel on Science Fiction, at the World Conference of Science Journalists, Central Hall. Nice to see Geoff and Paul, briefly, nice to visit the grand old Methodist Party Central, home of a famous conference of Futuristic Utopians in the Bold As Love story; and an amazingly well-attended panel. NB, it was not science fiction about global warming, drowning cities or anything like that. It was rocketship fantasies, with a small side-order on human cloning. Human cloning always gets people going & I can't understand why. It's just a form of IVF, the DNA is not the person & if you think it can be banned, should the shrinking knowledge gap be bridged, and should there be a market for the product, you are living in a dreamworld. Anyway, it was fun to be in London in the heat, crossing the vasty halls of Canary Wharf, seeing all the Londoners set their teeth as Tube Girl advised them, once more, to carry a bottle of water.

If she had a neck, that girl would be SO strangled.

Maybe I'll be less grumpy tomorrow. Did I mention the hayfever? First year I've ever suffered full blown hayfever, it goes on forever and I don't like it.